Taken
by Niobium
Summary: Hermione has been taken by the Death Eaters to be used against Harry Potter. Rating will probably go up.
1. Default Chapter

I apologize for any typos. I absolutely hate to proofread my work as what sounds brilliant in my head turns to mush on the page. My first Harry Potter fic. Flame away.  
  
Rating will probably go up. Dark subject matter.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Blah, blah, blah.  
  
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Hermione opened her eyes slowly. Her head throbbed in tempo with her heart beat, a slow waltz at her temples. Darkness greeted her, and she blinked several times in succession before accepting that she was not only staring at the inside of her eyelids.  
  
She had been laying on her right side, and she was increasingly aware of a growing pain in her shoulder. She rolled slowly onto her left side. The feel of dust and the occasional pebble grating against her skin brought her to the startling realization that she was naked. She refused to think about why, or in fact who had undressed her. The freezing cold of the bare concrete sent shivers through her newly sensitized body, the numbness instantly fading.  
  
Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back, so it was quite an effort to bring herself up to a kneeling position. The sudden effort caused the pounding of her head to accelerate, the slow waltz becoming a rumba. Colors swirled before her eyes in the darkness like the spinning skirts of silken gowns, completing the illusion of a grand ball.  
  
She pulled her knees out from under her. She leaned back, wiggling her bonds beneath her bottom. It wasn't long before her arms jerked, as rope entered the open space created by her bent knees. She laid back all of the way now, and brought her knees to her chest. Finally her arms looped over her toes, and her hands were clasped before her chest.  
  
She moved her hands along the rough fibers of the rope, searching for the knot. Forward and back they traced to no avail. It was a magic rope that fitted her wrists together. She would not be able to release them without the counter spell.  
  
She could not remember how she had gotten here. The last thing that she could recall was sitting before the fire in the common room of the Griffindor dorms. Her appointment to Head Girl had provided her private rooms to complete her studies, but this locale increased her opportunity of running into Ron or Harry.  
  
She had a Runes exam to prepare for, but Crookshanks had decided to assist by sprawling his long body across the text. So instead of reading she had sat, lazily scratching the ginger cat behind his ears. This action had been greeted by a gentle purring, accentuated by the merry crackling of the fire.  
  
She remembered that her toes were beginning to become uncomfortably hot from the heat, and she had pulled the under the chair, and away from the flames. A cup of tea sat on the table beside her, just the way that she liked it, a splash of milk, no sugar. She remembered how heavy her eyes had seemed, and then... She couldn't remember anything after that.  
  
She closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to focus her thoughts, but the effort only reminded her of the throbbing of her head, and she bent over quickly, folding her body into two as she felt her stomach lurch. She laid her head against the concrete and was thankful for the comfort that the chill brought. Willing back the rising bile in her throat, she felt he stomach slowly settle. The lurching motion replaced by a slow rolling sensation as it cramped up tightly like a balled fist.  
  
Time passed differently in this strange place. Without the aid of light to guide her, Hermione was unsure if she lay there for minutes, hours or days. Her mind began to race as she tried to calculate time elapsed. Surely she could not have been here that long. How long had she been passed out? Not more than a few hours. No. Of course not. Definitely not an entire day. Definitely. Probably. Maybe.  
  
Occasionally she would count aloud, softly, to herself. One...two...three. Counting to sixty became a calming ritual. In the darkness, she was able to remind herself that only a minute had gone by. Nine...ten...eleven. The sound of a voice, even her own voice, made the darkness less oppressive, less unbearable. Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen. Of course the realization that only a single minute had passed would send new waves of terror through her. How long until someone noticed that she was gone? How long until someone began searching for her. Twenty-five...twenty- six...twenty-seven. Surely Ron, or Harry would be missing her. She didn't know why it was more important to her that Ron notice. She didn't want to think about that now. Thirty-three...thirty-four...thirty-five....She needed to be calm, rational. She almost laughed out loud. If only Dumbledore could see her now. What would he think of her ability to use cool, calm intellect in the face of danger? Forty-one...forty-two...forty-three. She forced herself breathe slowly, and calm her racing heart. Forty-six....forty- seven...forty-eight. Someone was coming. Someone would find her. She would not be trapped here forever. Fifty-one...fifty-two...fifty-three. They were on there way. They were almost here. But still, it had only been one minute.  
  
She closed her eyes, and contemplated sleeping. Time always moved faster when she slept, but did she want time to go faster. What if she woke up and she lost a day, or two or, what if she never woke up.  
  
In the darkness all of her fears were given flesh. She was six years old again and this time there really was a monster under the bed.  
  
Hermione felt the tears welling up in her eyes, and blinked fiercely to keep them from falling. Crying would not help anything. She needed to think about this calmly. She could not wait for the cavalry. She would get herself out of this on her own.  
  
Unfortunately, the pressure of her bladder made clear thinking nearly impossible. Her prison was not large, four by four paces. She did not dare relieve herself in the corner, but she did not dare call out to her captors.  
  
Time passed and the need increased. She crossed her legs tightly and bit her lower lip. Her bladder swelled until it felt that it would burst. She could wait no longer. She licked her lips, trying to force moisture back into her suddenly parched mouth. She refused to acknowledge her nakedness.  
  
"Hello?" She cried out meekly. She shook her head. "Hello?" She called out again, this time her voice sounded more forceful. Calm even. Much better she thought to herself. "Is anyone there?" Silence met her called, and Hermione forced herself to try again. "Please? If you're out there, please answer me?"  
  
The door swung open, not quickly, nor slowly either. Hermione blinked back against the sudden light, her eyes screaming from the shock. A large figure was silhouetted in the frame, and try as she might she could make out no face.  
  
"What?" The voice was harsh, and gruff.  
  
"Where am I? Why am I here?" She was proud of herself. Her voice hardly shook at all.  
  
"You bothered me for that?" The door began to close again, and she felt her heart leap up into her throat.  
  
"Please? Wait?" The door hesitated in its path. "Please." She said again, her voice beginning to tremble. "I need to use the facilities." Even though she could not see the man's face, Hermione lowered her gaze, refusing to meet her captor's eyes. It took her a minute to realize that the door was again closing. "No!" She screamed. "Please, no!" The click of the door's latch slipping into place was the only response to her cries.  
  
She sat there in silence, staring at the closed door. The darkness seemed even thicker when compared to the brilliant white of the light. She was no longer able to hold the threatening tears at bay. Her shoulders shook, and a small mewing sound crossed her lips.  
  
The door suddenly swung inward, light spilling into her world. "Here." The gruff voice called. She saw his arm swing and heard the clattering of metal on the hard floor. Before she could speak, the door was again closing, and Hermione heard the latch once again click into place.  
  
She moved quickly, and her hands soon closed around the smooth handle of the metal pale. She moved to the far back corner, hovering over the large bucket, and thankfully relieved herself.  
  
Several minutes had passed before Hermione flushed bright red in the darkness. She had been truly thankful for the bucket. Not angry, or resentful. She had been treated like an animal, and it hadn't bothered her.  
  
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Harry and Ron sat at the large Griffindor table in the main hall. Their plates were piled high with an assortment of breakfast food. A small trail of steam rose from the eggs, and the smell of bacon filled Ron's nostrils. He broke the yolk of his sunny-side-up eggs, soaking up the yellow liquid with the corner of his toast.  
  
"It's not like Hermione to miss breakfast." Ron mumbled around a mouthful of food.  
  
Harry chewed thoughtfully on his own breakfast, only answering once he had swallowed the large bite. "She had some big exam today. She's probably still at the library."  
  
Ron nodded grudgingly. "Yeah. You're probably right. Hermione won't be happy unless she gets the highest grade. I just hope that she isn't late for Care of Magical Creatures."  
  
"Nawh." Harry replied. "She wouldn't miss Hagrid's class, and you know how she feels about being late."  
  
Ron again nodded grudgingly. He knew that everything Harry said was the truth, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. 


	2. The Boogeyman

To those of you who may think that Hermione is out of character because she isn't bravely fighting off her captors, I want you to think about what courage really is. There is an excellent story about this very point by Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried. The story is called Speaking of Courage. Read it. In fact, if you are still in high school, read it now! Your English teacher will thank me.  
  
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Hermione jerked awake. Covered in a cold sweat, the dreams haunted her still.  
  
She had dreamed of being entombed. The darkness was so thick it was suffocating. She could feel it filling her lungs, a soupy coagulation. She was drowning in the darkness.  
  
There was a faint scuttling sound that steadily grew. She could hear them coming, thousands of insects swarming. Before she could even think to scream they were upon her, biting, tearing. She could feel the worms, boring into her skin. The beetles hissed like serpents in her ears.  
  
She shook her head firmly to try to drive away the images, but the transition from nightmare to reality had been minimal. Still dark. Still cold. She ran her hands over her exposed skin to convince herself that it was intact. A small voice whispered to her, a voice that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Maybe she hadn't really woken up at all. Maybe she was still in the dream. Or even worse, maybe this was the dream. Maybe she really was slowly being eaten alive.  
  
To her closest estimation, Hermione had been held for four days, at least that was the number of times they had fed her.  
  
Everyday it was the same. Her stomach would begin to cramp tightly. And then the nausea would set in. Low at first, but steadily growing. Her head would begin to throb, the slow steady waltz of the first day. She would begin to wonder how long it took a body to start to digest itself.  
  
And then, she would begin to wonder if they had forgotten about her. If there was even anyone still out there to remember. What if they had left? Would anyone ever find her in time? Or when they finally did come, would only a skeleton remain? Alone in the darkness, these things were easy to believe.  
  
But eventually, they always came. The door would swing open on its hinges, and a shape would appear. The man, she was never sure if it was the same man, would place a bowl and glass on the floor for her. Her evening meal consisted of the remains of her captor's dinners. It closely resembled slop that would be fed to a hog, having the consistency of sludge. Most often, the bowl was filled with bread crusts, some kind of stew, and the occasional unidentifiable lump. For once she was thankful for what the darkness hid.  
  
She would eat quickly, shoveling the food into her mouth with her bare hands. She did not pause to think about the possibility of poisons or potions being hidden in the food. She was too hungry to care. When the bowl was emptied, her tongue would clean every inch of the inner surface.  
  
She was given one glass of luke-warm tap water per day. But to Hermione, it was more exquisite than the finest wine. She would roll it around the inside of her mouth, savoring the feeling of it against her dry cracked lips.  
  
She had thought valiantly of escape at first, wracking her brain for spells that would demolish the door. She had settled on one that had seemed appropriate, had almost spoken the words, when something stopped her.  
  
Fear, an icy hand gripping her heart. She could break down the door, but then what. Naked, wandless, how effective would she be against any adversaries? She did not even know how many held her. Or where she was. Or how to get back to Hogwarts in the middle of the night. Somehow it was hard to think of it as being bright and sunny outside of her prison.  
  
She couldn't describe what happened to her then. It was as if the cage seemed to shrink, holding her tighter. It became more permanent.  
  
So instead she would sit and imagine. The door would burst open, shattering from the force. A body was silhouetted against the light, tall and lean, but strong. Ron would cross the room to her, holding her tightly against his chest. She could smell him, fresh and clean. She could feel the heat of his body through his robes. He would whisper words of comfort, soft and sweet in her ears. And she would feel the safety of his embrace, and the love.  
  
Ron was not always her rescuer. Sometimes it was Harry, his eyes flashing brightly in the darkness, hair permanently ruffled. Sometimes it was even Dumbledore. Hermione was surprised by the strength in his aged hands. But mostly it was Ron.  
  
How she hated herself for these fantasies. She should be planning her escape, not dreaming of her rescue. She had always thought or herself as brave, but sometimes she felt that the bravest thing she could do was open her eyes, to face another day.  
  
She would no longer count quietly to her self. That had ended the second day. She had been curled up on the floor, her knees against her chest, softly murmuring the words when she heard had it. Not the gruff voice that had met her pleas the first day, but a smooth silky voice. No, not silky, slimy. She felt dirty just listening to it.  
  
"Two thousand three hundred and forty-nine... Two thousand three hundred and fifty... Two thousand three hundred and fifty-one." It cooed. Sickly-sweet, the voice seemed to slither under the door, and crawl across her ears. "Why do you count little witch? Do you still believe that they come?" Hermione crawled to the far wall, trying to distance herself from the voice. "Why would anyone search for a filthy little mudblood like you?" Hermione tried to plug her ears, but with her wrists bound she found that she could cover only one. And still, the voice continued to hiss.  
  
Hermione had gone two days without hearing that voice. She had moved carefully, trying to limit the noise that she made. She did not cry, for fear that they would hear her. She hardly breathed, the sound of her exhalation echoing in her ears.  
  
But on the fourth day, she heard it again, calling to her from under the door. "Has the darkness taken you yet little witch? The darkness does funny things to a person. Alone in the never ending night, your imagination begins to play tricks on you."  
  
Hermione crawled away from the voice, trying to hide from the sound. The voice washed over her, covering her in filth. "They still have not come for you mudblood. Do you wonder if they even know that you are gone? Do they know what haunts your dreams?" Hermione chocked back a sob. The words were to close to those questions that she had asked herself.  
  
"Alone in the darkness little witch. Are you lonely?" She could hear the sneer in his voice. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. "What scares you most little witch," the voice purred. "The shadows lurking in your own mind, or the Boogeyman outside your door?" 


	3. Scream for me

I wish I had an excuse for why it took me so long to update (grins sheepishly). The only excuse I have is a horrible case of writer's block and a lack of time to work through it. This story is not abandoned. I will try to be better I promise.

On with the show.

Niobium

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Ron sat cross legged before the crackling fire, his head cocked to one side as he surveyed the chess board. His Weasley jumper, a deep burgundy color, lay crumpled beside him, the proximity of the fireplace making anything more than a light t-shirt unbearable. Harry lay across from him. On his stomach, his head was propped up on his upturned palms. His legs were bent at the knee. His feet crossed at the ankles pointed skyward. The fire reflected off his glasses, shades of red and gold replacing his sparkling green eyes.

Ginny sat in a large over stuffed chair. While the upholstery had obviously seen better days, the chair seemed to wrap around her in a comforting hug, molding to her body in all the right places as only well loved furniture can. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her face obscured by a cascade of auburn hair as she bent over her book "The Standard Book of Spells Grade 6". While not possessing Hermione's obsessive need to overly prepare during break time, as the youngest child of seven, and the only female in the clan, Ginny often felt the desire to prove herself. Her excellent bat boogey hex was an example of her ability to apply what she had learned.

The sounds of pots banging and dishes clattering drifted across the small room accompanied by a faint humming and the smell of freshly baked cookies.

"Ginerva Weasley, you promised that you would help me clean up in here." The voice of the Weasley matriarch was strong and firm. "I will not ask you again young lady." Her tone clearly expressed her annoyance at her daughter.

"Coming mom." The youngest Weasley called as she sat her book on the end table and extricated herself from her warm cocoon. The girl all but ran to the kitchen recognizing her mother's tone of voice and the danger it signaled.

The flames suddenly roared green and only Ron's keeper skills saved the chess board from Mr. Weasley's arrival home. The grandfather clock chimed merrily, the hand denoting Mr. Weasley moving from "Traveling" to "The Burrow".

Arthur Weasley quickly brushed the soot away that was stubbornly clinging to his work robes and sat his small satchel beside the hearth. The coat rack leaned over from its position by the hearth, eager to serve its purpose.

"Evening Ron, Harry. You had best wash up for dinner." Mr. Weasley said warmly, his fingers making quick work of the buttons that secured his robes in place. He shrugged out of the navy material and hung it on peg the coat rack extended to him.

The boys both called out their greetings as they raced for the stairs, neither wanted to be on the receiving end of Mrs. Weasley's displeasure.

Mr. Weasley crossed the room, meeting his wife as she exited the kitchen and wrapping her tight in a warm embrace. If Arthur held his wife a little tighter than normal, or if Molly's eyes were overly bright no one was present to comment.

A clanging noise in the hallway jerked Hermione from her fantasy. She scrambled quickly back into the corner of her tiny cell, pressing her back tightly against the cold concrete wall trying to make herself as small as possible. Her ears strained for the sound of approaching footsteps. Instead she heard muted swearing before the footfalls continued in the opposite direction.

One week, seven days, one hundred and sixty eight hours, or ten thousand and eighty minutes. Give or take. Not that she was counting.

Her captors had been at most indifferent to her presence, for which she told herself for the thousandth time she should be grateful. But she wasn't grateful, not entirely. Honestly, didn't they know who she was? Hermione Granger. Best friend to Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived. Mudblood extraordinaire. Shouldn't they be torturing her, trying to extract information about Harry and the Order?

Oh what she could tell them.

Hermione blanched at the thought, and once again reminded herself to be thankful for their disinterest.

And with that thought expelled she found herself once again alone in the dark.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. She scrunched her eyes up tightly and pressed her fingers against her lids, waiting for the stars to begin their dance. Colors swirled, reds and whites. She watched the patterns swirl and check. It was stupid and childish, but sometimes Hermione found it hard to remember that there were colors and lights outside of her little cage.

They would come. Someone would find her.

Her Ron.

She wasn't sure when she had started to think of him in these terms, but there it was.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, and rested her forehead against her knees. The Burrow. She was at the Burrow with its roaring fire, and the constant laughter, not locked up, not here.

The Burrow. Mr. Weasley smiled at his wife as he dipped her dramatically, causing her to giggle like a school girl before he kissed her deeply. A chorus of groans from children met their public display of affection. Molly swatted at the boys half heartedly while smiling at her family.

A grating sound outside her door jerked her back from her reverie.

It was still too early for them to be bringing her supper. Her stomach made that very clear. It had just began to form loose knots in her belly, uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The nausea had yet to set in, and the throbbing in her head was only a waltz, maybe a tango, but not the unmerciful beating of the salsa that would indicate the approaching arrival of mealtime. No. She was far too comfortable (she snorted at her new idea of comfortable) for them to be bringing her food.

She hadn't bathed for the past seven days, and her normally unruly curls were matted into a fairly good intimidation of dreadlocks. Dirt and dust had formed a gritty coating on her skin as it mixed with her sweat. Her sweat held a distinctly acrid scent, a quality only brought on by terror. Her nails were bitten down clear to the quick, a testament to both her fear and boredom. Her teeth and tongue felt as though they were coated in cotton. They had long sense eclipsed the fluffy feeling of a missed brushing. As the daughter of two dentists, this was almost the worst of the injustices she had suffered thus far.

There it was again. The grating sound was closer this time.

Her throat went dry, and she forced down the rising bile.

"Has the darkness taken you yet little witch?" The voice outside the door sent new waves of terror through her body, which slammed back further against the wall. Her hands pressed against her lips in an effort to muffle any sounds that threatened to escape her trembling frame. The voice was back, the one that haunted her dreams. The voice oozed through the cracks in the door.

At the sound of a key turning in the lock Hermione stifled a scream. She turned her head away from the door, burying her face in her hands. It _was just her dinner. They were just early._ She told herself, willing herself to believe it. Her body trembled violently as she tried to curl up inside herself.

"Are you scared mudblood? Your friends aren't coming for you. They've left you here to die. You mean nothing to them, to their cause. You were their pawn to be used and sacrificed as needed."

_Not true. Not true. Not true. _She chanted. Ron would come. Ron would save her.

The door swung open slowly, filling the room with blinding light. Hermione began making small mewing noises which caused the man in the doorway to laugh, a low sibilant sound hardly more than a hiss. _Just dinner. It's only dinner._ Her inner voice screamed.

"I can taste your fear little witch. So sweet." The voice hissed.

She heard a rustling sound, robes sliding over the cell floor disturbing the dust and the filth. Her mewling sounds grew louder despite her desire to remain silent. She burrowed her head in her chest. She pulled her arms up over her face, her hands fisted so tight her knuckles were nearly transparent as the skin pulled taunt over the bones, nails digging in to her palms.

"You do fear me little witch. It is intoxicating."

She cried out as a hand fisted in her hair jerking her head back, her skull connecting painfully with the stone wall. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter as a finger lightly traced her jaw. The nail scraped across her skin gently causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. Her breathing was coming in short bursts, and her heart thrummed against her ribs.

She felt something warm and wet trail up her cheek. _Oh God his tongue!_ Her mind screamed. She cried out and bucked her body back, her head once again slamming into the wall.

"So sweet." The voice hissed this time right against the shell of her ear. She could feel the heat of his breath as it crossed his lips. "Scream for me little one. It's so much better when they scream."


End file.
